


Until It Bleeds

by everybreathagift



Series: Chafed [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Mickey Milkovich deserves better, OKAY., Season 7?, Typical homophobic language, What season 7?, What's reality?, okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreathagift/pseuds/everybreathagift
Summary: Mickey isn't who he used to be. Ian wishes he wasn't to blame.





	Until It Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of things: Fuck season 7, like, a lot, but also Mickey *did* go to jail in this fic but we’re gonna pretend he came back from Mexico like, a year later or something, k? Ignore reality for a bit. If the writers can do it, so can I, damn it. Also, because fuck season 6, too, Mandy came home and Iggy still lives at the Milkovich house. Oh, and Svet and Kev and V are definitely still a throuple, because fuck season 7. 
> 
> Got it? K, good. 
> 
> Want some pain to go with your bitterness? Apparently, I did, so here’s this. My first fic for this fandom and I’m super nervous about it because there are so many great writers around here.

Ian selfishly misses the days when Mickey spoke. Not about the weather or action movies or who pissed him off that day. No, when he  _ really _ spoke. They’d spent so long  _ not speaking _ that when Mickey finally started, what feels like years ago now, Ian was sure he could never love anyone more. When Mickey spoke his truth, admitted his feelings, lived true to himself, there was no one more beautiful in the world than him, as far as Ian was concerned.

If only he’d appreciated it at the time.

Because, see, when Mickey realized that words were what Ian needed, he provided them. Sure, it took a few brawls and a separation or two but he did it. There was a time when Mickey spoke up, spoke out, told Ian everything he was feeling, good or bad. He’d faced his abusive father, in public, even, and never flinched. If Mickey liked that green shirt on Ian, he told him so. If he hated the guy that Ian had a shift with, he told him so. He told Ian he loved him, that he trusted him. That he worried about him. He told Ian lots of things.

And instead of being receptive, Ian had pushed him away, mocked him, called him terrible things and hurt him even worse. Ian had left him, repeatedly. He’d taken all of the things that he pushed Mickey into for granted, and pissed them away. It’s one of Ian’s many, many regrets.

So, Mickey doesn’t talk anymore. He’ll give looks, or his mouth will twitch a certain way, but he doesn’t talk and Ian knows he only has himself to blame for that.

Since Mickey’s come home, things are different. To put it lightly. Still, you can take the boy out of the South Side, have him on the run, drop him in Mexico, but you can’t take the South Side out of the boy, right?

He came home, laid low at first until he realized that, truthfully, no one really gave a shit anymore. They were trumped up charges to begin with. He couldn’t go legit or anything, of course, but he and Svet opened another Rub ‘n’ Tug and things went back to normal. Mostly.

He hadn’t called Ian to tell him he was home. Ian had no clue, until he showed up at the Milkovich house to see Mandy because, God, how he missed her. It hurt to look at her. Same eyes, same hair. Same shit-eating grin and smart mouth. But he loved her, she was his best friend. He just wanted to go back to being seventeen and get high on her back porch with her.

Then Mickey had answered the door, and Ian’s heart fell to his stomach.

“Mandy ain’t here,” Mickey had said, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, clipped and monotone. Looking through Ian, past him. Like he hadn’t been gone for a year, hadn’t gone to prison, hadn’t told Ian he loved him in front of Ian’s house, voice steady and sure but still so sad.

Like they were barely acquaintances. Definitely not old lovers.

Ian’s still not sure what he said, the shock fogs his memory, but he does remember how thin Mickey looked, almost gaunt, and how badly his fingers itched to touch him.

That’s when they started again. That moment is when Ian gave up pretending he didn’t miss Mickey, didn’t long for him, didn’t wish he could go back and make everything right. He’d never moved on, he just got better at lying to himself.

It took a while. Ian doing the chasing for the first time in many years. Mickey pushing him away as hard and frequently as possible. But sometimes, when Mickey was far too drunk and Ian far too close, Mickey would lean in, bump their foreheads together, clench his eyes shut so tight that Ian would’ve died if it meant taking that look from his face.

“I fuckin’ miss you. All the time,” Mickey would say, on almost every occasion. “I miss when you loved me.”

The first four times, when Ian would respond with, “I still do,” Mickey shoved him. Got angry. Left the room or the bar or the house. The fifth time, Mickey said, “Then why does it still hurt so fuckin’ bad?”

The sixth time, Mickey kissed him, and Ian didn’t stop until he was dizzy and Mickey’s legs were shaking.

That was over six months ago now, and they’ve rebuilt their life together. They still live in the Milkovich house, mostly because they both feel better with Mandy close by, even if Mickey would never admit it. Ian’s still an EMT, and Mickey moved up in the ranks, enough that he stopped using Svet’s friends.

“It’s fuckin’ slavery, man,” Mickey had said. “They didn’t have a choice. Plenty of girls around here willing to get on their knees for fifteen, I ain’t gotta use unwilling participants anymore.”

Ian was so proud, and still finds it endlessly amusing to feel such pride for his boyfriend,  _ the pimp . _

They get Yevgeny nearly every other night, and rotating holidays. Mickey looks at his son like he’s a wonder, and damned near lights up like a Christmas tree when anyone mentions just how much Yev looks like his father.

But for all the good things, all the ways their lives have come together and reformed, there’s still things that don’t sit right. Too many, in Ian’s opinion. Prison changed Mickey. Running changed Mickey.  _ Ian _ changed Mickey, and as much as he’d like to, he can’t say for the better.

There’s too many instances of the ways he changed Mickey, and not nearly enough solutions. Only one solution, really, but Mickey doesn’t do that anymore.  _ Speak. _

~****~

Ian stepped out of the shower, silently cursing about the damned heater shutting off again when he heard Mickey’s voice muffled through door. It’s clear he’s not speaking to Ian, otherwise, he’d have just walked in, and maybe Ian should feel bad for pressing his ear to the door, for eavesdropping, but he wants so badly to hear what Mickey sounds like when he’s speaking without Ian around. Is it only Ian that puts that hushed tone in his voice?

“Look, man, I need you to check on your brother for me once in a while. Just a fuckin’ phone call or something.”

He’s gotta be talking to Lip, because he doesn’t have Carl’s number. Ian presses his ear against the door harder, wishing he could hear Lip’s responses. He was probably confused by Mickey calling him in the first place.

“Because I fuckin’ can’t, okay? But I’m gonna end up losin’ my goddamned mind if someone doesn’t so just, pick up the fuckin’ phone sometimes.”

Ian’s throat feels a little tight, and a little like he might cry because Mickey doesn’t have to say why. He doesn’t have to spell it out for him like he’s clearly going to need to for Lip. Ian knows why Mickey won’t ask him, because he feels like he  _ can’t . _

_ Sick of your whiny, pussy crap . _

“None of your fuckin’ business,” Mickey spits, and Ian doesn’t have to see him to know he’s throwing his free hand up. “It’s this much trouble to talk to your brother?”

It isn’t, Ian knows it isn’t. Lip calls him practically every day anyway. But, love him to death, Lip’s an asshole. He’s gonna make Mickey explain it if not for any other reason but to make Mickey uncomfortable.

“Because the last time I did it, he fuckin’ left me, alright?” Mickey says harshly, and Ian’s mouth tastes like bile. “Called me a pussy, beat the shit out of me and left me. I can’t go through that again, man.”

Silence, then.

“You fuckin’ happy now? Just call him, come by, fuckin’ take him to see Wizard of Oz, I don’t give a shit. Just text me after and give me an update before I get fuckin’ homicidal. Dickhead.”

Ian hears Mickey throw the phone against the wall, and then the front door slam shut. It’s another ten minutes before the choking feeling in Ian’s throat subsides.

~****~

It’s after midnight when Ian drags himself through the door. Everything hurts, and he’s pretty sure he could sleep for a week, but there’s no signs of a drop coming, so he feels okay.

Mickey is sitting on the couch, a beer in his hands, looking far away. His eyes jump to Ian’s when he hears the door, but he doesn’t move from his spot.

“Where ya’ been?” Mickey asks, looking back down at his beer, voice low and deliberately casual.

“Seven car pile up. You gotta start getting news updates on your phone, Mick,” Ian says, smiling a little to lessen the knot in his stomach as he walks to the kitchen, only stopping to drop a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder on his way.

Trust is hard for Mickey. Hard meaning damned near impossible. Even before everything. And after everything, well, Ian’s still working on it. He’ll continue working on it. Forever, if he’s got to because it’s his own fault that he lost Mickey’s trust to begin with.

And yeah, his therapist says he shouldn’t blame himself for the things his illness causes, but fucking around on Mickey? He’ll always fucking blame himself for that.

He makes himself some toast because he hasn’t eaten since this morning, but really, he just wants to curl into Mickey for the rest of the night and sleep the day away tomorrow. He wants to kiss Mickey until Mickey realizes that Ian’s never, ever,  _ not fucking ever _ going to betray him like that again.

He feels Mickey's forehead rest between his shoulder blades as he rinses his plate off. 

“Worried about you.”

Ian feels guilt twist his insides and makes that same vow to himself again. Never, ever again. Mickey’s a little drunk and that can go one of two ways: he’ll either avoid Ian’s touch like the plague, or cling like it’s their last night on earth. Ian really hopes it’s the latter tonight.

He spins around to find red rimmed, ice blue eyes staring up at him and Ian wants to tell him how beautiful he is. Sappy and stupid shit but it’s fucking true. Mickey is a work of art and deserves better than Ian. Always has. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian says, still not touching Mickey despite how badly he wants to. He’s gotta let Mickey do the leading. If he leans in first, Ian will take full advantage but not before that. “Shit got crazy and you know I can’t-”

“Use your fuckin’ phone, yeah, I know,” Mickey interrupts quietly, looking away.

Ian swallows hard, realizing that the night is not going to go how he wanted. Mickey is hurt, always fucking hurting, and Mickey’s response to negative feelings is more negative feelings. Shutting himself off because that’s how he protected himself from his piece of shit father and even worse life. Shut it down and force himself to be anything other than a human being.

Mickey tosses the empty beer bottle in the sink and takes a step back, rubbing at his eyebrow with his finger. “You coming to bed any time soon?”

Ian takes a small step forward and has to clench his hand into a fist to stop from reaching out. “Soon as I shower.” Ian gives him another small smile. “Wanna join me?”

Mickey chews the inside of his cheek for a second and then shakes his head. “Gotta be up fuckin’ early. Svet needs me to take Yev to his doctor’s appointment.” He turns and walks to the bedroom, but turns back slightly right before he goes in. “Sorry you had a shit day.”

Ian feels like crying because he’s  _ Mickey .  _ All of the bullshit he deals with in his head and he’s still worried about Ian’s day. And Ian doesn’t sob with anger and regret and self fucking hatred when he’s in the shower but it’s a near thing. Still, no tears when he crawls into bed next to the man he’s hurt and loved in equal measure.

It’s only when Mickey silently pulls Ian’s arm to wrap around his middle, grips it for dear fucking life, that Ian’s cheeks start to feel wet.

~****~

Mickey has always been jealous and overprotective. Ian remembers him kicking the shit out of Ned in the middle of the street. Threatening to kill a man for giving Ian a tip. Sleeping with a hand on Ian’s arm to make sure nothing happened in the middle of the night. Yeah, Mickey’s always been jealous, and Ian’s always loved it.

Now, though, he doesn’t feel the same way when Mickey gets in a guy’s face that he thinks is staring for too long. Doesn’t smile when Mickey questions every single invite from a coworker. Doesn’t intentionally provoke the response just to see Mickey riled up.

Because before, like everything else, it was different. Mickey wasn’t jealous because he thought Ian would actually step out. He just didn’t like assholes fucking with things that were his, people included. But now, any fits of possessiveness stem from Mickey being insecure, with both himself and Ian. The constant wonder if Ian’s gonna come home with a roll of cash and casually talk about fucking around on him again.

They’re only at this club because it’s Derek’s birthday and he’s still young enough that loud music, bad booze and grinding, half naked men equals fun. Mickey is miserable, because it’s not his scene, and Ian’s miserable, because Mickey can’t relax. There’s too many people, and yeah, Mickey’s been out for a while, but prison mentality never really goes away. The thought makes Ian want to wrap Mickey up and physically carry him home, like a wounded bird, even though he knows Mickey could easily take anyone in the place.

“Wanna dance?”

Ian silently prays that the guy is talking to Mickey, because his head isn’t geared for a fight right now but with the way Mickey instinctively steps closer to Ian, he knows he’s not so lucky.

“Motherfucker, I know you see me standin’ right here. He look like he wanna dance with you?”

“No, he looks like he’s dying to get away from you. You’re clearly not showing him a good time,” the idiot responds, challenging. “Just one dance, huh? If you wanna come back to this diva after-”

The guy doesn’t get a chance to finish. Before Ian can even really comprehend what’s happening, Mickey has grabbed the guy by his shirt and headbutted him. The guy drops like dead weight, and Ian’s scrambling to grab Mickey when he lands another solid blow with his fist.

“Still feel like dancin’, you fuckin’ faggot?”

It takes Ian two more tries to pull Mickey back, glancing around to make sure it’s not gonna be an all out brawl.

“Mick, c’mon, security’s coming.”

Mickey’s breathing hard but finally tears his focus away from the bloodied, dazed man on the floor to look up at Ian, and it’s so fucking  _ sad.  _ Ian moves on autopilot as he drags Mickey out the door and down the alleyway, but his mind is stuck on the look of fear and anguish he saw in Mickey’s eyes. Worse than the day Svet came into their lives, and Ian didn’t think that was possible.

He stops to catch his breath, to maybe ease the vice grip on his heart, to kiss Mickey until they can’t breathe and he wishes with everything in him that this was like the time with Ned, when they chased each other down a cluttered street, laughing and cursing the entire time. But it isn’t, and Mickey doesn’t stop.

When they get home, still no words spoken, Mickey walks straight for the kitchen and starts gulping down whiskey like he might die without it. He won’t look at Ian. Then, he grabs two Percocet from the cabinet and washes them down, and doesn’t stop until he’s drained most of the bottle.

“Take it easy, Mick, please,” Ian says gently, taking cautious steps toward him.

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

“Oh, I’m just Gallagher now, huh?”

“You gunnin’ for a fuckin’ fight, too? Cause I gotta tell ya’, not a smart idea right now.”

Mickey pushes him, hard, and Ian stumbles a little but he has absolutely no want or urge to push Mickey back. He’s too upset, for Mickey, for the shattered man in front of him, the one he fucking broke and apparently can’t fix and Ian refuses to acknowledge the irony in the thought. He can’t fix him, hell, he can’t even make it  _ better _ .

Ian goes to bed alone, pissed off at himself and every person that’s ever done Mickey wrong in his life and the world, feeling helpless. He spends an hour looking at the busted ceiling before he finally attempts real sleep, and it’s another hour before he hears the bedroom door creaking open.

Mickey presses himself against Ian’s back, and all Ian can smell is liquor and smoke. His movements are sloppy but he grips Ian’s side hard enough to hurt.

“Sorry I fucked up your friend’s party,” Mickey slurs, nuzzling between Ian’s shoulder blades. “I hate when you’re fuckin’ mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Ian says quietly, but doesn’t dare turn over. Yeah, Mickey may be drunk talking, but there isn’t enough whiskey in the world to have him talking about shit while Ian’s looking at him.

“Just the fuckin’ thought that you might wanna turn out some dude drives me fuckin’ insane, man. I know I’m not a prize but I- I’m tryin’.”

“I don’t want anyone else, Mick. You’re it for me,” Ian whispers fiercely, wishing so badly to see Mickey’s face and kiss his lips and sear the words into his skin, like his own name over Mickey’s heart.

Mickey is silent long enough that Ian thinks he might have fallen asleep, but when he speaks again, his voice is thick and Ian feels a little piece of himself die with the knowledge that Mickey is on the verge of crying.

“Please don’t fuckin’ leave me yet. I don’t mean to make you miserable or be this hot and cold all the time, I fuckin’ swear. I’d break my goddamned neck just to get you to smile at me. I’m gonna do better.”  

_ Looks like he’s dying to get away from you ,  _ that dumbass had said. If Ian could find him, he’d easily be spending the night in jail.

Then there’s no fighting it anymore, Ian has to turn over. He has to make Mickey understand, make him see. Immediately, expectedly, Mickey tucks his chin to his chest to avoid Ian’s eyes, even though it’s nearly dark enough that they can’t make out each other’s faces anyway.

“Listen to me, okay? You make me happy. Exactly how you are. Who you are.” He takes a chance and pulls Mickey too him, breathing a sigh of relief when Mickey doesn’t even stiffen up, just buries his face in Ian’s chest. “I love you. I have since we were stupid teenagers. That’s not ever gonna change. I fucked up last time and nearly lost you for good. I won’t make that mistake again.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, but Mickey kisses Ian’s neck before he falls asleep and it feels like a win.

~***~

It’s not all bad. It’s not even mostly bad.

They’re still each other’s best friend. Mickey still makes Ian laugh as frequently as possible, and Ian puts in exactly the same amount of effort even if Mickey laughing is a rare, beautiful thing. They still have amazing sex.

But even that’s a little a different. There’s no more quick handjobs in the bathroom, or Mickey dropping to his knees in an alleyway, or bending over the nearest surface he can find to feel Ian inside him.

Like most everything else, it’s always going to go one of two ways; Mickey’s going to fight, and make Ian fight in return, or Mickey’s going to be the most submissive, needy bottom ever. Rough or soft. Demanding or pleading. No in betweens.

If he’s not clawing at Ian’s back and biting Ian’s lip so hard it nearly bleeds, he’s burying his face in Ian’s neck and clinging for dear life.

Ian loves both, gets off on both, but the latter is bittersweet because it always feels like Mickey thinks it’s the last time. Ian’s tried to catch the triggers, if it’s something he says or does that makes Mickey feel like he’s losing him, but nothing solid ever sticks.

It seems to be at random, which just means that Mickey’s keeping it all in his head, like he does with everything else.

~***~

And then sometimes, it’s  _ not _ the sex, because there isn’t any. Grant it, this has only happened once, but it was enough. Enough for Ian to realize just how deep Mickey’s insecurities ran. Which, overall, was just, really fucking heartbreaking.

Mickey had never been a  _ guy’s guy  _ but he was confident enough. He knew he could turn Ian on with a look, and back when he was still playing straight, all he had to do was ask for a fuck and there were ten different offers at his feet. He wasn’t vain, just comfortable.

Then, Ian had picked up some extra shifts at work, and Yev had been staying with them while Svet went out of town and before Ian realized it, it’d been nearly three weeks since he and Mickey had had any sort of sex. Hell, they’d barely even kissed, short, quick things on Ian’s way out the door.

And the realization hadn’t come on its own, unfortunately. No, it could never be that simple. 

Ian and Mandy had been sitting on the couch, bullshitting, flipping through their phones. 

“Why don’t we have guys that look like that around here?” She’d said, pointing to some dude that popped up on her feed. Huge, muscled guy covered in tattoos, shirtless and giving a douchebag look to the camera.

“Probably has a micro penis from all the roids, Mands.”

“Come on, you’re telling me you don’t think he’s fucking hot?”

Ian grinned and rolled his eyes. “You need to get laid. But, yeah, he’s kinda got it.”

“Who the fuck’s got what?” Mickey asked, strolling out the kitchen with two beers.

“This guy your sister and boyfriend would totally bang,” Mandy explained, holding up her phone to show Mickey.

Mickey went blank for a second, his mouth twisting just slightly before his eyebrows rose. “What, ‘cause he’s cut?”

“Um, yeah, and tall and tan and blonde. Are you fucking blind?” Mandy laughed, and Ian tried to find it funny but something about Mickey’s face left little room for humor.

“What the fuck ever,” Mickey muttered, setting Ian’s beer down in front of him but very pointedly sitting in the chair across the room.

“You’re terrible at this whole gay thing,” Mandy said, going back to scrolling through her phone.

Ian should’ve caught on at Mickey’s solemn, “yeah, I know,” but he’s never been known for being quick.

So not quick, in fact, that very same night, when Mickey had crawled into bed and straddled his lap, Ian had complained about tired he was. He  _ was _ tired, fucking exhausted, and really, he just wanted to pass out for a week or so and catch up from the extra shifts. But if he’d had any sense at all, he would’ve noticed how desperate Mickey had seemed, rolling his hips and grinning a very forced grin down at Ian, and fucked his boyfriend stupid. But he didn’t, and he hadn’t.

“I don’t even think I could get it up right now if I wanted too. I’m getting old,” Ian laughed, pulling Mickey off his lap and into his side. “You’re gonna cuddle me and you’re not gonna bitch about it.”

Mickey hadn’t bitched. He hadn’t said anything, actually, but when Ian woke up the next morning, Mickey wasn’t in the bed anymore.

It all comes to a head when Ian comes home from work and walks to the bedroom to take off his boots. Mickey’s in just boxers, stepping into his jeans when Ian opens the door.

“Hey,” Mickey yells, turning his back to Ian as he hurriedly pulls them up to his waist. “Can you fuckin’ knock?”

Ian laughs a little, taken back by the outburst. “I gotta knock to come into my own room?”

“I was gettin’ dressed, man,” Mickey says, still facing away as he pulls a dirty t-shirt over his head.

“Yeah, because I’ve definitely never seen you naked before.”

“Fuck off, alright? How was work? I gotta go pick Yev up from his fuckin’ little league thing, you comin’?”

Ian struggles to catch up, following Mickey out of the bedroom and into the living room. “We just gonna pretend like you didn’t just freak out over me seeing you undressed?”

“Christ, Ian, I don’t have patience for your stupid shit today,” Mickey sighs, still not looking directly at Ian as he grabs the keys and heads for the door. “Whatever, stay the fuck here.”

Ian contemplates stopping him, forcing him to talk but with the realization that he’s made his boyfriend feel unwanted sitting heavily on his shoulders, he can’t make his feet move. On top of all of the other bullshit Ian’s done. It wasn’t intentional, of course, but Mickey being so uncomfortable with himself that he doesn’t even want Ian to see him naked?

Ian groans, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. He pulls out his phone.

“Orange boy,” Svetlana answers, all business. 

“Hey, it’s your night with Yev, right?”

“If it is not?”

Ian cringes. “I was gonna ask if it could be, anyway? Not for Mick, but for me. I mean, kind of for him.” Ian sighs and tries again. “I fucked up. I’m trying to fix it.”

“You always fuck up. Is why he wears stupid face all the time. Like kicked puppy.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m gonna fix it. Can you just tell him that you want Yev an extra night? Please? I’ll make it up to you.”

“Alibi is getting new floor. Labor is not cheap. You spend weekend here in two weeks, yes?”

“Deal,” Ian agrees, nodding even though she can’t see him.

“No more fuck ups, Orange Boy. Is better for Yevy when he is happy, yes?”

“I know. No more fuck ups. Oh, did Yev ever stop itching? I never saw a rash or anything.”

“Bad clothes soap. I changed it. Is fine now.”

“Okay, good. I’ll see you. Thanks again, Svet.”

“Mhmm.”

Ian prays that ‘no more fuck-ups’ is a promise he can actually keep. He’s damned well gonna try. Svet is terrifying on the best of days.   

Ian spends the next hour cleaning the house (somewhat) and prepping for a night of Mickey spoiling. His intentions are gonna be pretty clear when Mickey walks in the door; his favorite toy, lube and an over abundance of weed are laid out in the bedroom, and Ian is fully committed to showing him that  _ no one _ has ever gotten to him the way Mickey Milkovich has.

But three hours later, Mickey still isn’t home, and Ian feels ready to crawl out of his skin.

He almost calls Svetlana back, but doesn’t want to risk Mickey being there when he calls. He’s pacing, and there’s a million bad thoughts running through his head when Mickey finally walks in the door.

Aaaaand all of Ian’s thoughts leave his mind immediately.

“Got fuckin’ blood on my good shirt, man, what a fuckin’-” Mickey is mumbling about something, ripping his shirt over his head the minute the door is open. 

He’s got a fresh cut next to his eye, and his knuckles are bleeding. He’s slightly sweaty, and he’s frowning and throwing his shirt to the ground and he’s fucking  _ beautiful . _

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” Mickey asks, then closes his eyes and exhales heavily, leaning over to pick his shirt back up. “I was at the fuckin’ gym when one of the girls called. Pussy ass motherfucker from the check cashin’ place roughed her up real bad so I had to handle it.”

Ian registers the word ‘gym’ and definitely registers the way Mickey immediately tries to put his shirt back on, turned away from Ian again. But then Ian is rushing over, quick strides until he’s pressed against Mickey’s bare back.

“I had plans, Mick,” Ian groans, gripping Mickey’s hips to pull him back some. “I had really great plans for you and you gotta come in here looking like this?”

Mickey shivers, hard, like he hasn’t been touched in years, but still tries to twist out of Ian’s hold. “This why Svet kept Yev again? Hoping to get laid?” He’s trying really hard to sound light, but it’s visibly forced and his body is entirely too tense.

But Ian can barely concentrate with his mouth pressed to the curve of Mickey’s neck, breathing him in, drowning in the fresh, raw scent of him. He bites down, groaning again when Mickey’s back arches slightly. “Want you.”

“You sure?”

“Do I feel sure?” Ian presses his cock against him, lets him feel just how quickly Mickey gets to him.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, some of the tension leaving his body as he drops his head back to rest on Ian’s shoulder. “Not gonna last five fuckin’ seconds.”

“We've got all night,” Ian promises, pressing his lips to Mickey's throat. He drags one hand over Mickey's chest, teasing a nipple with his thumbnail, sucking in a quick breath when Mickey squirms. “Fuck, you're gorgeous. Love the way you move, Mick.”

“Tell me you've got lube in your pocket, Gallagher, or take me to fuckin’ bed.”

Even though he's not looking directly at Mickey's face, Ian can all but feel him blush. Of course, he'd never admit it, but Mickey has a thing about being praised in bed. Even before all of the bullshit. It's only become more intense since then, and Ian is more than happy to oblige.

It's only flattery if it's not true, after all, and everything that he tells Mickey is one hundred percent truth.

“Want you to ride me,” Ian tells him, breaking contact just long enough to reach under the couch for the bottle kept there. “Wanna see you.”

Mickey is already unbuttoning his pants, practically shaking, fumbling, before he spins and kisses Ian hard. He's panting, ripping Ian's belt off with a frustrated groan. “Why the fuck are you still dressed?”

Ian grins, feeling his cock throb as he finishes getting Mickey's pants off. He steps out of his own, lazily stroking his cock a few times as his other hand grips Mickey's ass, hard.

“Bend over.”

Again, Mickey shudders, but immediately complies, gripping the back of the couch and spreading his legs. “Hurry up.”

Ian admires the view while clicking open the bottle, licking his lips at the sight. “Fuck. Let me eat you out.”

“Ah, fuck,” Mickey whispers, dropping his head between his shoulders as his back arches further. “No. No because then I'll never get your cock in me. Just get on me, already.”

“But your ass looks so nice, Mick…”

Mickey's entire body tenses up and Ian's pretty sure he hears a whimper escape him. Then Mickey quickly reaches down and wraps a tight fist around the base of his cock.

“If you make me bust before you're in me, I'm gonna kick your fuckin’ ass so h-”

His words cut off with a deep groan as Ian slides two fingers in. He's tight, excruciatingly so, and Ian's somewhat grateful that Mickey has always enjoyed a little pain with his pleasure. Slowly, Ian stretches him open, ghosting his palm over the curve of Mickey's spine.

“Not sure how long I can wait.”

“It's good,” Mickey sighs, lifting up onto his toes for a moment. “I'm good, just c’mon.”

“Gonna hurt,” Ian warns, slipping a third finger in, trying to ignore his aching cock.

“I look like a bitch to you?” Mickey grunts. “Come the fuck on, Gallagher.”

Ian slides his fingers out, bending over to drop a kiss to the dip in Mickey's back before pulling him back by the hips. “Told you I want you to ride me.”

Ian sits down, greedily taking in the sight of Mickey still gripping his cock tightly, trying to hold off. Mickey straddles him, and Ian has to close his eyes when Mickey guides Ian's cock into his hole, otherwise it'll all be over before it even starts.

He opens them up once more when he's fully inside, gripping Mickey's thighs hard. Mickey has his eyes clenched shut, biting his lip as his chest heaves.

“Don't fuckin’ move,” Mickey breathes, cock twitching against his palm.

“God, Mickey, you're so fucking gorgeous.”

“Don't fuckin’ talk, either,” Mickey says through clenched teeth as a drop of fluid leaks over his fingers.

Ian grins but quiets nonetheless, slowly dragging his nails up and down Mickey's thighs while he waits. It's almost impossible, Mickey is so tight around him and the thought that Mickey is already seconds from finishing makes Ian's heart pound.

Finally, Mickey takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Fixing Ian with a heated stare, he grasps Ian's shoulder with one hand and whispers, “Fuck me.”

Ian groans, wrapping his arm around Mickey's waist, pulling him as close as possible. Mickey hisses as the movement forces Ian deeper, eyes rolling back as he squirms.

“Feels so good,” Ian tells him, rocking his hips up just enough to tease. “Feels so fucking good, Mick.”

They're close enough that Ian can feel Mickey's harsh breaths on his lips, feel his heart pound against his chest. Mickey slings his arms around Ian's neck, knocking their foreheads together.

“Ian…”

“Christ, the way you look right now,” Ian whispers, still thrusting slowly, “So fucking hot. Drive me out of my goddamned mind.”

Mickey moans and kisses Ian hard, threading his fingers through Ian's hair as he starts rolling his hips faster.

Ian's pretty sure he could come right this second. Especially knowing what's waiting for them in the bedroom but Mickey looks so lost in it, almost drugged, that Ian has to prolong it. Wants Mickey to look at him this way forever.

Like the weight has been lifted off Mickey's shoulders and he can just, enjoy. Ian hasn't seen this look in far too long.

“Harder,” Mickey breathes urgently against Ian's lips. “Fuckin’ harder, please, please…”

“Fuck, Mick, you're gonna make me come,” Ian groans, digging his nails into the skin over Mickey's ribs.

Mickey is practically bouncing now and Ian's meeting him thrust for thrust, panting heavily, stomach clenching with want. Ian's cock pulses hard enough for Mickey to feel it, and he grunts in response.

“Jesus- holy fuck, Ian, I'm there, c’mon…”

“There ya’ go,” Ian encourages, dragging the tip of his finger around the head of Mickey's cock, just to see if he can really finish almost hands-free. “Let me see, Mick, so fucking beautiful…”

With a throaty moan, Mickey comes between them, shooting over Ian's fingers as he bites down on Ian's shoulder hard enough to hurt. Ian is right behind him, gripping Mickey's ass with his other hand to pound into him through his orgasm.

When Ian collapses back against the couch, Mickey follows, landing heavily on Ian's chest. It takes a solid three minutes for their breathing to slow.

In a rough voice, Mickey murmurs, “Don't ever make me wait that long again, asshole.”

He's not saying  _ I thought you didn't want me anymore _ or  _ you're the reason I felt inadequate  _ or  _ I was scared _ but Ian hears it all the same. Since he knows the conversation won't go any further, he kisses the top of Mickey's head and says, “You didn't even get to see what's in the bedroom.”

Mickey looks up at him then, soft and content and looking at Ian so lovingly that Ian's heart flutters in his chest. “What's in the bedroom?”

Ian's scratches through Mickey's hair gently. “A ridiculous amount of weed, copious amounts of lube, and some rather sizable Ben-Wa beads.”

Mickey shivers and bites his lip, flattening his palm over Ian's side. “Give me ten minutes and you're carrying my ass to the bedroom.”

“Carrying you? Your legs broke?”

Mickey smiles wide and Ian feels light as a fucking feather. “Yup.”

~****~

They see Trevor.

It’s something Ian had wanted so badly to avoid, because even though he’d told Mickey about him, he never wanted Mickey to have to put a face to a name. It becomes real, then.

“How ya’ been, man?” Trevor asks, pulling Ian into a hug, perfectly cordial and smiling wide. Trevor was the type of guy that never felt awkward about anything, even running into an ex and the guy that said ex cheated on him with.

“I’ve been great. Really great,” Ian says, all but beaming. “Trevor, this is Mick. Mickey.”

“Ah,” Trevor grins. “ _ The _ Mickey. Good to finally meet you. Now I see why you had this one tied up in knots for so long.”

Ian’s heart twists a little at how wonderful Trevor is. There’s not a shred of malice or bitterness in his tone.

“Hey,” Mickey responds, quiet, looking down at his feet. He never offers his hand, but it’s pretty clear that he’s not intentionally trying to be rude.

“Still savin’ lives, huh?”

“Trying,” Ian laughs. “What about you?”

“Still doing my thing. Trying to get funding for a new center across town but who knew South Side isn’t very keen on the protection of queer youth?” Trevor shakes his head, both exasperated and disgusted. “I actually gotta run, one of my kids is getting his thirty-day sober chip and I can’t miss it. It was great seeing you, though. You look good,” he finishes with a wink, clapping Ian on the shoulder. “Take care of him, Mickey, he’s one of the good ones.”

They keep walking, and Mickey is far too quiet for Ian’s liking. He doesn’t want to push, because he’s unsure what Mickey’s feeling. Anger? Jealousy? Sadness? All of the above?

Finally, Mickey spots a bench and takes a seat, shoulders sagging as he pulls out his smokes from his back pocket. He breathes deep, like the smoke filling his lungs is the only thing keeping him going, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.

“So, that’s the guy, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you, uh… were you  _ trying _ to get someone as far away from me as fuckin’ possible, or…. it just happen?”

He’s  _ speaking _ , and Ian could cry for it. His stomach is in his throat and he’s so afraid he’s gonna fuck it up and make Mickey shut down again.

“I wasn’t trying. But no one is like you, Mick.”

“There’s plenty of hardened pimps around here, Gallagher, you’re just not looking hard enough.”

“Hey...”

“Nah, fuck it. It’s whatever. It’s fine. You’re with me right now, not him.” He takes a long drag from his smoke, exhales through his nose. “I’m not stupid. I know I’m not the better choice. I’m not out there saving the troubled youth of America. But uh… when you- when you leave, don’t pick him, okay? He’s boring, and you’re like, rainbows and shit. Need someone to keep you on your toes, yeah?” He finally meets Ian’s eyes and gives a very weak smile.

Ian tries hard to swallow the lump in his throat, to find words that can make this better. Make Mickey understand. “Mick, I’m not leaving you. Ever.”

There’s a twitch of Mickey’s lips, and Ian knows he’s not speaking anymore. “Yeah.”

“No, hey, this is import-”

“We gotta go get Yev. Let’s just… just don’t, alright?” He says, slightly harsh but still holds Ian’s hand the entire way home, gripping it so tight that Ian can feel his knuckles grinding together.

Like Ian might disappear if he lets go, even a little.

~****~

Out of it all, though, ‘I love you’ is the worst for Ian. He knows he deserves it. Hell, he deserves worse. And it’s just a stupid phrase, anyway, so it really shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But when he says it, and Mickey absolutely refuses to say it back, it hurts.

Again, it’s Ian’s fault. The last time Mickey had said it, Ian had laughed in his face, made it out to be like a pathetic joke. Of course, Mickey has no interest in saying it again. Worse, it had taken Mickey so long to admit it in the first place, and when he’d finally said it, in person, to Ian, it was thrown back at him.

Alright, there’s a few things Ian will never forgive himself for.

And Ian doesn’t mean to say it sometimes. He doesn’t intentionally try to make Mickey uncomfortable or put him on the spot. But sometimes, Mickey will smile at him. One of those rare smiles that lights up the whole goddamned room and makes him look seventeen again and sends Ian’s heart into his throat. He can’t help it. He says ‘I love you’ instead of ‘you’re beautiful’ because the latter would definitely earn him a fist to the face but the former makes Mickey swallow hard and look away. Sure, he’ll nod, sometimes he’ll even say, “I know.”

But that’s it, and Ian just wants to earn those words again.

~****~

“You're not going.”

“But, dad, please!”

“I fuckin’ said no and that's that.”

“That's not it! You're not even listening to me!”

Ian takes a deep breath, reaching over to grab Mickey's hand under the table. This fight has been going on for twenty minutes, with zero results. Yevgeny still wants to go to his friend's party, and Mickey is still firmly against it.

“I don't need to listen to you. I fuckin’ know who his father is, I know what he's done. You're not going.”

“Why? Because he went to jail?” Yev asks, standing up and pushing away from the table.

Ian would smile if it were any other circumstance because he looks  _ so _ much like Mickey. Black hair, crystal blue eyes, and an attitude to match. Determined, smart-mouthed and a quick temper. He's not even a preteen yet and already a handful.

“Yes,” Mickey answers simply, taking another sip of his beer. He hadn't let Ian take his hand so he'd placed it on Mickey's knee instead, hoping to keep it from jumping, to no avail. 

“So have you! You went for even worse stuff!”

“Yev, that's enough,” Ian says, giving him a sympathetic look.

“No, this is stupid,” The little boy responds, crossing his arms. “Dad's acting like he's never done bad stuff before.”

Mickey snorts and shakes his head, but Ian cuts off whatever he's about say. “Because he cares about you. We both do. That's why he wants to protect you.”

“Well it's- it's bullshit!”

“Hey,” Ian warns at the same time as Mickey stands up.

“You're right, it  _ is _ fuckin’ bullshit,” Mickey says, voice raised. “It's bullshit that I love you? You  _ could _ wake up to my fist against the side of your fuckin’ head or a gun to your temple just because I fuckin’ feel like it. You  _ could _ spend the next few days wonderin’ how you're gonna fuckin’ eat or if you're gonna need to find a new place to sleep by tomorrow.”

“Mick,” Ian whispers, standing up to touch his shoulder.

Yev is steadily shrinking back, as Mickey, practically shaking, keeps inching forward.

“That piece of shit went to prison because he's got a problem with his hands finding underage snatch. But fuck me for giving a shit, right? You're lucky I swore I'd never be my dad because then you'd really be fucked, kid. You wanna go so bad? Go. See if I give a fuck anymore. Then you can really have something to fuckin’ complain about.”

Yev has tears leaking from his eyes at this point, biting his bottom lip as he runs to his bedroom and slams the door. Ian watches as Mickey stalks to the kitchen and opens the fridge, grabbing another beer before slamming it shut.

“A little harsh, don't you think?”

“No, he wants to act like a little shit, I'll fuckin’ treat him like one. He wouldn’t have made it two fuckin’ seconds under Terry’s rule. I'm sick of this.”

Ian sighs. “Sick of what? You had to know the two of you were gonna butt heads at some point, Mick.”

“I'm sick of being beaten down for giving a shit, so I'm done. I'm fuckin’ done, Ian.”

“He's your son, you don't get to just, stop caring. It doesn't work that way.”

“The fuck do you know, huh?” Mickey asks harshly, pushing away from the sink. “It seemed to work just fine for you.”

“Bullshit, I've loved that little boy since he was born,” Ian defends, feeling his composure slip.

“Yeah, walking away when I was locked up like you never knew him definitely looked like love.”

Ian clenches his teeth against the pain in his chest, feeling like he's been punched. “Fuck you, Mickey.” He turns to walk to the bedroom.

“Yeah, go ahead and fuckin’ leave, Ian, that’s what you do best, huh? And I’ll follow you and chase after you and fuckin’ wait around until you’re ready to come back. How long's it gonna be this time?”

Ian spins back around as soon as the words leave Mickey's mouth, and before Ian can even really process them, he sees Mickey’s face turn from angry to panicked in a flash. He rushes forward, gripping Ian’s face between his palms, arms shaking.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean- I’m so fuckin’ sorry,  don’t- just let me-”

“Hey,” Ian whispers, wrapping his arms around Mickey as tight as he can. “It’s alright. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Mickey whispers back, urgently, like he can’t say the words fast enough. “It’s not, I should’ve never fuckin’ said that. Any of that, I didn't mean it.”

“You did,” Ian says gently, pulling Mickey as close as possible. Before he can respond, Ian continues. “Please. You gotta talk about this shit, Mick. You're walking on eggshells and I fuckin’ hate that you feel like you have to. Couples fight. You're allowed to throw shit in my face when I deserve it, okay? I'm not walking out.”

Mickey tries to pull back, jaw clenching as he turns his head away from Ian. “I was just being an asshole.”

“Good,” Ian whispers fiercely, trying to get Mickey to look at him again. “Be an asshole. Beat the shit out of me, if it helps. I won't fight back… much.” When Mickey's lips curl up just a fraction, Ian grins in response for a moment. “I just want you to talk. To me, to Mandy, a fucking shrink. But you gotta get some of this out of you, it's eating you alive.”

Mickey stares at Ian for a long time, brow furrowed, completely silent. Ian is counting the beats of his heart, so loud in his ears, when Mickey finally whispers, “I'm so fuckin’ scared you're gonna leave again. I'm scared of it all the time. That you're gonna realize how ridiculous it is for someone like you, to be tied up with someone like me. Past experiences haven't been fuckin’ great, either. I don't know how to trust you again, Ian. I'm sorry.”

Ian refuses to cry right now because it wouldn't be fair but his throat feels thick all the same. “What the hell are you apologizing for? You not trusting me is my fault, Mick, not yours. You don't have to be sorry for that, I do.” Mickey shakes his head but Ian continues. “It's not your responsibility to learn how to trust me again. It's mine. It's up to me to show you that I'll never fuck up again. That you're stuck with me. You're gonna have to wake up every day for the next twenty years and see my goofy mug, and maybe by then, I will have made some things right.”

“I've turned into a fuckin’ pussy. I'm scared of everything. I'm scared of turning into Terry. You see what I just did to him, man? I'm not cut out for this shit.”

“Stop,” Ian says firmly, kissing him briefly. “You're a wonderful father, and you could  _ never _ be Terry. But you should probably apologize to him.”

“Something else I'm bad at,” Mickey mutters, pulling away to sit on the couch, tugging Ian down with him.  

“You just apologized to me just fine.”

“It's different. Your upbringing doesn't depend on me not being a piece of shit.”

“Good thing you're not a piece of shit, then.”

Mickey gives him a small, soft smile, searching Ian's eyes for something. Ian stares back, refuses to break the contact, praying Mickey finds whatever he's looking for.

“Tell me you're in this for the long haul this time. That you'll love me even when it's fuckin’ hard.”

“I know I didn't show it when it really mattered,” Ian whispers, pulling Mickey close. “But I never stopped loving you. I'm certainly not gonna stop now. You got me for life.”

Mickey takes a deep breath and nods, visibly struggling with his next words. Ian stops breathing altogether.

“I love you, too,” Mickey says, quiet but steady, holding Ian's stare. “Always have.”

Ian doesn't let his lip tremble. He doesn't. But his heart is in his throat and he's pretty sure he's gripping Mickey's hand hard enough to hurt.

“Say it one more time for me. Please.”

Mickey smirks a little. “I love you. God, you're so fuckin’ gay.”

“Mhmm,” Ian agrees, smiling so hard it makes his cheeks ache. “But at least I'm not gay  _ and _ sappy.”

“Fuck off, I am not-”

Ian kisses him, hard, half pulling Mickey into his lap with it. Mickey responds in kind, palming the back of Ian's head and cupping Ian's cheek with the other. They kiss until they're breathless, and Ian can't keep the stupid smile off his face.

“Thank you,” Ian whispers against his lips. “For sticking around. For giving me so many chances.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey mutters, brushing off Ian's words as he stands up. “Gotta go apologize to him, don't I?”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “Want me to come?”

“Nah,” Mickey shakes his head. “Guess I better get used to it now. Gonna fuck up a lot more by the time he's old enough to get out of here.”

“Probably. He's being raised by an ex-con, a Russian whore and a Gallagher. There's bound to be some fuck-ups.”

Mickey chuckles and disappears into Yev’s room while Ian busies himself with making dinner. He doesn't hear any yelling or loud crashes, so he figures it's going okay. When Mickey emerges, Yev is holding his hand and they both look like they've shed a few tears.

“Dad's coming with me to Brady’s party!” Yevgeny smiles brightly.

“And so are you,” Mickey says pointedly at Ian. “Ain't going to that shit alone.”

“Then I'll be there.”

Later that night, once Yev is in bed and the house is quiet again, Ian shoves Mickey into the wall with a grin.

“And the fuck you mean someone like you? I'm just as South Side as you are, bitch.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mickey asks around a laugh, pushing Ian back. “Wanna prove it, tough guy?”

Ian's heart could burst right this second, he's sure of it. Mickey's grinning at him and for the first time in a long time, Ian thinks, maybe even knows, they're gonna be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! You can also find me on tumblr at hannigramandromancek.tumblr.com!


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